Of the Court of Oranges I told them, of parks hung with bronze lanterns, and I wove with my words a tapestry that all could see. I told them of the Great Mosque with its twenty-one archways decorated with terracotta mosaics in red and yellow, of doors covered with burnished brass, of the fourteen hundred columns that support the roof of the mosque. I spoke of lattices of alabaster, of marble walls, and how during the month of Ramadan the entire mosque was illuminated by twenty thousand lights.
Returning to the Court of Oranges, I spoke of the hot still days, the sound of falling water in the fountains, the shuffling feet of the worshipers, the scent of jasmine, rose, and orange blossoms. Of travelers from foreign lands, of pomegranate, apricot, of vines and palms … ah, what did I not tell them?
A listener who hung on my every word, his eyes glowing with excitement, was Alan. This one, I thought, is worth saving. He has the soul of a poet, imagination, and intelligence, for such as these is the world made.
“I am tired,” I said at last. “I have ridden long this day.” Turning to Sharasa, I said, “Will you show me where I am to sleep?”
Akim scowled. “Alan will show you.” He paused. “No need for you to ride on. Stay a few days.”
The big young man sneered. “You come with fine talk, but you come in rags.”
I smiled at him. “Do not get into a sweat, my big-chested friend. When the time comes, you will get your whipping. Do not beg for it beforehand.”
A moment I paused. “If you wish to know, I have but lately escaped from prison.” I named the castle. “I have enemies, and they seek me now. My enemies are your enemies also, for I have told you of Yusuf and his seeking of all who lurk in the mountains.”
Turning to Akim, I suggested, “Put out a guard and choose a place in the hills to which you can escape. I warn you. They intend to sweep the hills, and they will find you. Hide what is of value and your flocks.”
It was a concession from Akim that he suggested I stay on, and I learned then that many a victory is easier won with words than a sword—and the results are better.
“I shall stay, Akim, and you shall tell me stories of your wars. I venture you will have stories worth the telling.”
“That I have.” That he was pleased was obvious. “It will be good to talk to another soldier.”
Alan came with a candle, and I followed him. In Moorish homes a room was rarely set aside for sleeping. One slept wherever one might be, yet Alan showed me to a room where there was privacy, and brought me water with which to bathe. When I followed him from the main room, I caught the expression in the eyes of the bastard of the Visigoth, if such he was, and that expression was not pleasant.
That was one victory that must be won with a sword.
Sharasa stood in the doorway as I passed, her head tilted back against the doorjamb, looking at me from under lowered lashes.
And that was a victory that must be won with other weapons.
18
After two days nothing had been resolved except some of the wrinkles in my belly. Sharasa was just as elusive and just as attractive, but surprisingly, Akim and I had become friends.
The stories he had to tell were of war and bloodshed, of risk and riot, of scaling walls and single combat. Akim, unwittingly, was teaching me much of war, and not knowing what might lie before me, I was eager to learn.
He had fought for and against both Goth and Moor, surviving many a bitter battle in the breaches of city walls, in house-to-house combat, and of fighting in the streets.
The bastard son of the Visigoth was called Aric, and I knew he intended to kill me. Aric had decided Sharasa was for him, and until I arrived on the scene, it had seemed to him inevitable. He glowered about, casting threatening looks in my direction.
Sharasa was often about, yet vain as I might be, I knew much of her interest was in what I had to say of clothes, cities, and the behavior of other women. This, Aric was too stupid to understand. Sharasa, I think, had long had her own dreams, none of which included Aric. My words fed those dreams.
Alan, too, was never far from me when I talked of Córdoba.
Turning to him one evening when we were briefly alone, I said, “Alan, you must go to Córdoba or Seville. You would be happier there.
“Go to Seville,” I advised, “find John of Seville, and tell him Kerbouchard sent you.”
Akim overheard and turned sharply around. He had heard no name for me but Mathurin, and at the time not too many Europeans had family names.
“Kerbouchard? Your name is Kerbouchard?”
“It is.”
He slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “Why did I not see it? You resemble him, Kerbouchard the Corsair!”
What a ring he gave the name! What a sound!
“I am his son.”
“I saw him once. It was in Almeria, that city of pirates and rovers of the sea. He came with a dozen ships loaded to the gunwales with loot!
“Ah, how we stared! Our mouths watered to see it! Gold, silks, spices, jewels … he unloaded them all. Had he asked for volunteers, the city would have emptied to serve him.
“There was never another like him, not one! He had raided the isles of Greece, captured a rich prize off Tripoli, looted another within sight of Rhodes!
“There was a soldier with him, a man I knew from another time, another war. His name was Taillefeur, he—”
“What?” I caught Akim’s wrist. “Taillefeur was with my father?”
“You know him? Then you know him for a rascal, though a first-class fighting man. Yes, Taillefeur was with him, and I wondered at it, for he was not a man to serve another unless he could betray him for a price, and there were many who offered prices for Kerbouchard.
“Taillefeur fought beside me at the defense of Caltrava in 1158. We fought in the breach together against the Moslems, but I never trusted the man.”
Taillefeur had been with the Baron de Tournemine, my father’s enemy. Was it he who brought news of my father’s death? Might he not have betrayed my father, if betrayal was his way? It was a thing to consider.
On the morning of the third day Alan came to me. “Be warned,” he whispered, “Aric means to kill you.”
It was time for me to ride on. I wished the big lout no harm, but my destiny lay outside this valley. Moreover, I feared the soldiers of Yusuf would find even this long-hidden valley.
On this morning I arose early and rode down the valley toward a deep pool where I had often gone to bathe. The sky was dull with clouds with a suggestion of coming rain, yet the swim would refresh me, and tomorrow I must be on my way to wherever I was going.
Which of us knows the direction of his life? Who knows what tomorrow may bring? Often, when pausing at a crossroad, I have wondered what might lie waiting on the road not taken?
Drawing up in the shelter of some willows, I tied my horse where he could feed but would nevertheless be hidden from a chance passerby. Disrobing, I walked to a rock and plunged into the pool.
For a few minutes I swam, then returned to the rock from which I had dived and began to dress. Yet scarcely had I begun when I heard an angry cry. It was Sharasa!
Swiftly, I plunged through the curtain of brush and found myself standing in a cave mouth with Sharasa not ten feet from me and Aric facing us both, holding my scimitar taken from my saddle.
“I will kill you now,” he said. “I shall kill you and her, too!”
“He has done nothing. He did not know I was here.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Well I knew the razor edge of that scimitar, and I was half naked and unarmed. That blade would sever an arm like butter.
“Leave him alone. He has done nothing.” The shock of his sudden appearance was gone now. He had given me the moment I needed, and my mind grasped desperately for some escape. Nor was there a rock or a stick upon the cave floor. There was nothing. There was no weapon.
He had moved to block any escape, and there was no way out. I must meet him, face to face. My life was at stake here, but Sharasa’s was also.